


Jokers To The Right

by lindsey_grissom



Series: Crystal Heart [10]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's not the first time Jack Harkness has been tortured.</i>  Part of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/3978">Crystal Heart</a> 'Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jokers To The Right

Hunger. Thirst. Cold. **_Pain._**

The last so deep within him, so burned on his soul that it is becoming familiar.

Cuts. Bruises. Breaks. Tears.

The room has long ago lost its use as a distraction. His eyes coloured blue and black, swelling even as he pants. Shackles holding tight to wrists and ankles, rubbing red grazes on his sensitive flesh. Long sleeves for a while after this.

There will be an after, of course, he is Jack Harkness. Truth does lie beneath his reputation.

He longs to relax his arms. To slump against the comfort of merciless cold stone. But his captors like him chained and spread eagled, and he doesn't really have much power to convince them otherwise.

He will try though, if only he can stay conscious for long enough next time.

He has not imagined the gleams in the couples' eyes. And they are attractive. In a slightly scaly sense.

Telepathic too, which would usually work in his favour. Not now though. Not after the Agency. Two years. Two years lost to the ether of time. No explanation, no apologies, 'though _that_ does not surprise him.

He stayed only long enough to know they would reveal nothing. Long enough to ensure they knew of his anger. Long enough to make them worry something had remained.

Captain. The had still called him that, but he wonders if he was something more during those two years. Why didn't he have a back-up plan? Did he become _that_ stupid during those years? That lax in planning?

Sometimes he thinks he deserves their loss, if he has changed that much.

He knows he did not request the removal himself. Fear and guilt had warred on many of his former compatriots' faces. No. This was not his doing, what ever he had done, what ever he had known, had terrified those in charge. If only he could remember.

He shies away from moving his thoughts too far internally, but too late and he loses sight of the present.

It is an old Agency process, one that, for him, has become second nature. A curse that was once such a blessing.

His mind looks like the living wing of the Birthing Hospital of Boe. White washed stone, no colour but for the silver touch pads. Doors line the walls, indiscriminate from each other. As he passes, a soft brush of his fingertips against the touch pads and the doors slide open with a familiar swish. He knows these rooms. Knows their contents and so passes by without catching sight of the memories held within.

It is as though the temperature drops as he reaches the final turn in the corridor. Impossible, it is but a mental image after all. And though his mind is screaming at him to turn back, be presses on, around the bend.

Darkness. Pain. Emptiness. Nothing.

It is as though the gap before him sucks at his every sense. There is nothing here but a raw gaping space.

Falling. Falling. Falling. **_PAIN._**

With a shout he strains against his chains, his mind snapping back as his eyes snap open. Pain lances out from his stomach, and it takes a moment for him to realise it comes from the alien before him. But mostly from the latest kick he has received.

"Couldn't have just started with 'Hello'? That too boring for you?" It is an amazing thing, but in the last few months, he has developed his sarcasm muscles like a body builder.

Silence meets his quip and he frowns, drawing his eyebrows together gracefully.

"Not much of a talker, eh? How are you at charades? Used to love the game myself, some things are much better mimed than spoken. I'm a little tied up at the moment, but if you'd just let me down we could get a great game going." Nothing. "In that case, you go first."

The man, for it is definitely the male of its species, stands as still as stone, not so much as one tentacle moving.

"Oh come on! Give me some help here. Is it a book? A holofilm? Plant? Animal? You've got to give me something."

His words continue with almost no input from his mind, while he tries to think of an escape.

Nothing different from the morning, but still there must be _some_ way out.

The only door opens, allowing the entrance of his two captors, though executioners is a mere fitting description, and his continuous flow of words taper off.

He wiggles his hips slightly, an attempt to find a little comfort, and does not miss the lust that flashes in both new pairs of eyes.

Now that he can work with.

With barely a wince, his face splits into his brightest smile.

"Well hello. I did wonder if you two would be back. Your guard here is good for conversation, but not so kind on the eyes. But you two. Phew." The grin turns seductive and his hips wiggle again.

Yes, definitely something he can work with.

 

**End.**


End file.
